


compartmentalization

by turquoisetumult



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Gwen and Merlin had a beautiful friendship, Merlin Memory Month, Nostalgia, Past Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Sentimental, i attempt to rectify that by having them bond over Arthur, it was totally neglected in later seasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 19:38:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15956123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turquoisetumult/pseuds/turquoisetumult
Summary: Gwen half-chuckles and whispers so quietly that Merlin has to strain to hear it, “I can’t believe he kept it.”Months after Arthur’s death, Merlin and Gwen clean through his old chambers.





	compartmentalization

“You never do things the easy way, do you, Merlin?”

The door is only half open, but already he sees her from behind, bottom on the floor, her left arm taut, hand open flat on the ground. Her blue skirts create a circumference of at least five feet around her and Merlin thinks she’s been there awhile.

“How did you kn-?”

“I heard the water in the bucket sloshing around,” Gwen says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world; he peeks down at the full bucket of water, now calm in his clutch. He shoves his way fully inside the room he knows as well as his own and sets the bucket down before approaching Gwen, her body still turned from him.

“Honestly, if you insist on keeping these chambers clean, I don’t know why you don’t just do it with a wave of your hand. Magic _is_ legal now, you know. And you _are_ in the process of receiving a big promotion.”

 “I know. And I know I have _you_ to thank for that,” Merlin sighs, his hand lightly gripping Gwen’s shoulder for support as he slowly positions himself on the floor beside her, cringing as his knees crack. It’s been half a year since Arthur left them, and in those six months, there are days Merlin feels he’s aged sixty years. He thinks sometimes that Arthur’s high maintenance kept him young and on his toes.

Gwen glances at his hand smoothing out the fabric of her dress and instinctively places her own hand on his, warm and welcoming.

“I suppose I wash up the ordinary way for the same reason you have been sitting here on a freezing, stone floor, doing something that you could just ask a servant to do,” Merlin points out, mentally noting the various pieces of luggage, some opened and stuffed, some still waiting shut on the side. Laid atop of one bag is a slightly discolored white letter, with Arthur’s name sprawled across it in Gwen’s dainty penmanship.

“And if it’s the truth you’re after, I also do it because it helps me feel close to him.” ( _The feeling lasts a split second, but he swears he experiences the splashing on his chest, smells the stink of the filthy pail, hears the hollow knock of Arthur’s knuckles against the wooden bucket._ _He shakes, and for a moment, thinks he’ll look like a wet dog to Gwen, but it only comes off as a tremor._ )

“Are you cold?” Gwen asks, eyebrows scrunched in mild concern.

“No. No. Just somewhere else.” His sad smile is matched by hers, before she twists her body away again.

“You’re right, then,” she says, and he recalls their conversation. “We do share the same reason for doing such menial tasks.”

Gwen caresses a small white handkerchief between her fingers and lifts it until it rests beneath her nose. She closes her eyes and breathes deep. When her eyes open again, they are a little misty.

She half-chuckles and whispers so quietly that Merlin has to strain to hear it, “I can’t believe he kept it.”

Merlin can’t manage his curiosity anymore. “Gwen? What have you been doing here?”

Gwen’s hand drops immediately, stirred out of her stupor. The handkerchief lies atop of her swollen belly. “Packing. Sorting. Organizing. All of the above, really,” she states, quickly, then goes on to explain. “I want these chambers to be the babe’s, once he or she is born. So I’m collecting Arthur’s belongings and storing them away.” She lazily gestures to the cases that Merlin spotted before. “If this child is anything like its father, it’ll need all the room it can get, wouldn’t you agree?”

Merlin grins widely. “Yeah, I would.”

A moment of nostalgia, and then he playfully swats Gwen’s arm. “C’mon. I’ll help. Get up from off the floor now; your body will thank you for it.”

He leaps upward, a new energy of hope rushing through him, and he proffers his arm toward Gwen for the radiant, but sufficiently rounded, pregnant woman to grab hold of.

“Oh, Merlin, thank you for not making me admit that I desperately needed that help in order to stand.”

“Of course, my lady,” he jests. “After all, you and I have spent our lives learning to anticipate others’ needs.” Merlin pulls a nearby chair toward her and leads Gwen toward it, helping her gather her skirts so she can sit comfortably.

“So,” Merlin raises his arms halfway before letting them fall against his thighs with a resounding smack. “Where do I start?”

“I was looking through that chest of drawers before I became distracted,” Gwen answers, blushing slightly.

“On it,” Merlin assures and already tosses a burgundy tunic onto the bed. He looks over his shoulder and asks, “What is that, anyway?” He juts his chin toward the handkerchief.

“Nothing,” Gwen retorts, dismissively, her eyes averted from Merlin. “Well, something. Obviously, it’s _something_. It’s silly, really.” She stares back down at the item that she is massaging absent-mindedly. “I gifted this to him. For luck. The time he played the role of Sir William and I provided him lodging in my home.”

The room quiets for a moment before Gwen blurts, “It was the first time we kissed. And I suppose, I’m just … surprised. That he held onto it. After all these years.”

“Huh,” the sound emits from his lips before he presses them tightly together, opening them again only to wonder, “I never thought him sentimental.”

“No…” Gwen agrees, softly. ( _She remembers anniversary celebrations planned by Merlin and Arthur’s ostentatious attempts to garner her forgiveness when he’s caught having forgotten her birthday. Perhaps,_ she speculates _, his sentiment lay in moments, not dates.)_

Gwen hears rustling and by the time she looks up, Merlin has gone back to ruffling through the drawer. He digs out a taupe-colored comb and tosses it in a case loaded with similar trinkets.

“Not there!” she shouts from across the bed.

Merlin raises his eyebrow and Gwen rises sluggishly, only to need to bend again cautiously. She hoists a case and deposits it on the side of the bed nearest to Merlin.

“Sorry, but I’d rather that go in this sort.”

“What’s the difference?” Merlin ponders, idly thumbing through the items that Gwen presented him.

“These are the things I want the babe to have and use,” she clarifies.

Merlin picks up the comb, examines it, and tilts his head.

“What?” Gwen exclaims. “There’s nothing wrong with hand-me-downs, especially royally expensive, lavish hand-me-downs.”

He knows that every one of Camelot’s knights would willingly give a week’s pay to purchase the new prince or princess the finest gifts. If Gwen doesn’t want to toss certain items, it’s not because she’s afraid of being wasteful, but Merlin won’t speak of it. ( _And if it saves the both of them from having to admit the bitter-sweetness of the newest Pendragon always having a piece of their father with them through an inconsequential comb, then all the better for it._ )

So instead, he says, “It’s not that. It’s just … well, it’s bit large for a baby’s head, isn’t it?”

Gwen sighs. “The babe will grow into it _eventually_ , _Mer_ lin.” ( _This particular enunciation of his name makes him smirk before it hits him that it wasn’t a stentorian and jocular voice that spoke it, but the raspy yet dulcet one of his queen. But Gwen’s guffawing perks up his spirits, nonetheless._ )

Eyes staring past him, Gwen says, “He always had a hard time finding that thing.”

He drops the comb into the appropriate spot. “Tell me about it. I never quite understood how the man destined to become Camelot’s greatest king could never quite manage to dress himself in the mornings.”

Peeking back down where he just placed the comb, a cerulean cloth catches his eye. He shakes out the folded fabric to reveal a scratchy, faded blue cloak.

“Oi!” he belts. “This is mine!”

The only reaction he receives is Gwen’s sharp giggles.

“It’s not funny, Gwen. This could’ve been draped over my lean, and therefore easily-prone-to-cold, body many times during Camelot’s long, winter nights. No, instead, the clotpole stows it away so it collects dust!”

“Merlin?”

“Yeah?”

Gwen bites her lip and merely comments, “It isn’t dusty.”

“Oh.” Merlin furrows his brow. “Right.”

“Arthur wore it often. Don’t you remember?”

( _He recalls catching Arthur break away from his men to visit Queen Annis alone or sneaking out of the castle to call on Gwen during their courtship.)_ “Of course.” He clears his throat. “I guess I never realized.”

She elaborates, “After we married, sometimes we’d disguise ourselves and visit the lower towns to gain a better understanding of the poor’s living conditions. I remember Arthur’s fingers would be constantly in his hair, knuckles bulging beneath the thick fabric of hood. He’d always grumble about how itchy the thing was.”

Merlin crinkles his nose. “I don’t understand. If he hated it so much, why not just replace it? … And return the original to its rightful owner.”

Gwen grins. “I would ask him the same thing; he’d shrug and change the subject. But, he always seemed slightly offended that I would even suggest such a thing.”

Eyes downcast at the cloak, Merlin whimpers, “Sentimental fool, indeed.”

Rubbing her belly, she smiles sadly, adding, “Wonders never cease.”

Fingers tightening around the material, he croaks, “He loved us, didn’t he? In his way.”

“Yes,” Gwen concurs, rapidly and incontestably, all her emotions exhaled through one word. “Sometimes I think too much,” she adds, lip wobbly, and palms stroking Merlin’s arms, white handkerchief interlaced among her fingers.

Merlin shakes his head, voice thick, eyes clouded by unshed tears. “I let him down.” It’s a statement said with as much certainty as the simplest, most apparent fact. His eyes dart toward Gwen’s belly and he professes, “I’ve let you all down.”

Gwen’s hands still and clasp Merlin’s shoulders in resolute determination. “Never!” she insists. “If anything, you let him live! You afforded him the time he needed to mature. The time he needed to develop his own opinions and perspectives and to become the man who was deserving of our love. The man who had the capacity to see past social barriers and was able to love us lowly servants with all his heart and soul in return.”

She pauses briefly before resuming with a kind smile. “Without you, Arthur would never have lived to see his coronation for the title of crowned prince, never mind that of Camelot’s king. Nor would he have lived to have become my husband or your best friend. Arthur would have died his father’s puppet. An impudent bully. Sycophants would have mourned him, but he would have been remembered as only King Uther’s boy. But _no_ one will dare forget King Arthur Pendragon. And his legacy will live on.”  

Gently, she tugs at the cloak in Merlin’s grasp until he surrenders it. Rolling it up, she tucks it away in the luggage, the beige comb nestled closely to it, and declares, “Starting with those within this citadel’s walls. We will make sure of that. Won’t we?”

Messily and unattractively, Merlin snorts back any secretions and nods, subtly. “We will,” he promises. “ _Ciege_ ,” he mumbles into his open palm, eyes flashing gold; Gwen watches in fascination. ( _No matter how much time passes, she doesn’t think she will ever be able to observe someone perform magic as if it were a casual occurrence._ ) When he lowers it, Gwen sees a small brooch, bearing an intricate symbol.

“This sigil belonged to Arthur’s mother. He gave it to me once, before we faced the Dorocha. He, uh, didn’t think he would survive it.”

“Yet another instance where you ensured he did,” Gwen interrupts, lips serenely curved upwards.

( _Frost-bitten skin and iced bones; dark shadows engulfing Lancelot instead. No,_ he reminds himself, _he’s not there right now._ ) “Anyway, this,” he continues, holding the sigil before them, “was important to Arthur. I think your child deserves to have this piece of his or her grandmother as well.” He carefully tosses it on the cloak.

“I’d like that very much, Merlin. We’ll have to ask Gaius to regale us with stories of Ygraine as well, one of these days. Thank you,” Gwen utters, voice small and sincere. She elevates herself by standing on her tiptoes and plants a tender kiss on Merlin’s cheek, gently patting his other with her hand, until she directs her feet and attention to the half-full chest.

In a sudden puff of air, she exclaims, “Oh, Merlin. I feel like I’ve been here for hours and still there is much to do.”

A knock on the door reveals Percival. “My lady,” he addresses and bows curtly. “My apologies for the interruption. We’ve news from the scouts at the Saxon borders. I thought you might like to hear the reports as soon as they were received.”

“Sir Per-“

“Go,” Merlin commands. “I can finish up our project here.”

She protests, “It’s not fair to you to have to do it on your own. There’s too much left-”

“My queen, you forget,” he says, beaming, “I have a readily available source of help.” Merlin narrows his eyes at the chest and opens all the drawers at once.

“Must come in handy, eh, Merlin?” Percival winks.

Merlin chortles, putting Gwen at enough ease to leave. She rests her hand on his arm and squeezes in gratitude. He reciprocates by covering it with his own, as she had done earlier.

Percival holds the door open for Gwen to step through, nods his farewell to Merlin.

Left alone in Arthur’s old chambers, Merlin can’t help but recall how many times he had crept in here without Arthur’s knowing, trying to acquire some set of keys, hiding from a bewitched Uther and his troll of a wife, or some other odd reason. So many stories left to tell...

Shaking off his thoughts, Merlin returns to sifting through Arthur’s belongings. He changes tactics and targets Arthur’s desk; he figures it will be the easiest to deal with, since much of the work there is his own. Beneath mounds of written parchment is a tome. It calls to him; he hesitantly opens it. Unlike his book of magic, this tome is completely blank with the exception of the first page, with a short inscription in Arthur’s untidy calligraphy that reads: _Merlin, all your first drafts are to go here. You cannot possibly lose this massive tome, so no more excuses._

A sudden and boisterous laugh escapes Merlin’s mouth. Only King Arthur would expect his manservant to write his speeches for him.

 _Well, you dollophead, I will be more than happy to do one last piece for you_ , he thinks.

Merlin grabs a quill, dips it in ink, and starts:

_Littlest Pendragon,_

_There are precisely two statements that best summarize your father._

_One:_   _No one else will admit it, but the first thing you need to know about him – he was a massive clotpole. He overworked and underappreciated his servants; he was spoiled rotten and impulsive as well as stupidly noble and ridiculously self-sacrificing._

_Two: He was one of the best men I’ve ever known._

_There was one time when_

Merlin pauses, pondering for a moment. In an instant, he declutters the desk of everything but the tome, quill, and ink. Summoning the case with the cloak and comb, he positions it on the desk. It may take a long time, but Merlin will have one more item of considerable size to add for Camelot’s future heir.

With that, he moistens his quill once again, and writes.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr’s MerlinMemoryMonth prompt which shows an image of a stack of suitcases.
> 
> Feedback appreciated! ♥


End file.
